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“Squirrel, this is getting to be something we can’t deal with,” Harb says. “You need to make some attempt to communicate. Sign language. When I find you standing under the neon, alone, after your shift, when you don’t need to be here, and I ask you why that is, maybe you do something? Are you waiting for a ride? Tap your watch or something.” She shows him her unadorned wrist. “Well, where a watch ought to be, Squirrel, damn it. You waiting for the bus? Nod for me, huh?”

“Excuse me,” comes a voice from behind, “But you’re in her light.”

Harb looks over his shoulder. Ten or twelve feet back there, stands a tall, bony dread-headed guest he was absolutely certain, at check in, was a meth cook. Harb’s been having Beau watch that room, making sure no lab equipment went in. The half-liter of turpentine that was reported to him makes sense now, when he sees the easel set up and the oil-messy palette hooked on the nut-and-bolt thumb.

A glance back at Squirrel and she tosses her hair, sticks her narrow nose up to catch the electric blue light. Whether she’s posing for the painter, or it’s sign language, Harb doesn’t think too hard about.